Drury Lane
by Clumsy Ninjable
Summary: It's been six months since Sherlock's "death," and he's decided it's high time to reveal himself to John.  What he doesn't expect is a relationship between Molly and John to bloom. Slight Molly/John, Sherlock/Molly.
1. Induction

Molly took a deep breath. The door to her flat was an unimposing white slab with two simple panels engraved into it, and a small peephole that sat at just about eye level. Her keys hung from the lock, her hand in the process of twisting the handle open, when she decided to stop and take a few minutes to compose herself. It had been four months since Sherlock had appeared on her doorstep, a bright smile on his face and a bag in his hand, telling her how becoming her new haircut was, and, oh, did she lose weight? She had gladly stepped aside; after all, how could she refuse him lodging? She was giddy at the prospect of having the enigmatic man back in her life. However, even clouds with silver linings tended to rain occasionally, and while it was a dream come true to wake up and see Sherlock every morning, his antics were quickly wearing on Molly's nerves.

Lately, Sherlock had been inventing "mysteries" that Molly was supposed to solve upon returning home. Depending on how bored he was during the day dictated just how elaborate the mystery was; once she walked in and nearly fainted upon finding Toby suspected in a cage over a kiddy pool filled with some sort of noxious green substance. She had berated Sherlock until she was blue in the face, demanding that he remove her cat from his contraption. He did as she asked, somewhat grudgingly, before gleefully explaining to Molly how it worked.

Sherlock was also not keen on cleaning up his 'mysteries,' and so the kiddy pool had remained in her apartment until Molly had the time to clear it away. This irked the pathologist more than anything; she was a meticulously neat person, believing that everything had its place and, contrary to Sherlock's belief, that place was not in a pile on the floor.

She pushed the door open and groaned. It appeared as though today was no different; a mystery was at hand. Streams from last years' New Year's Eve party line the walls of her kitchen, and led into the small hallway that opened up into the living room. Removing her coat, molly placed her bag on the kitchen counter, moving some cultures Sherlock had left out, before heading into the living room. A scene of absolute chaos lay before her. Every pillow she owned had been up rooted and carefully scattered around the room, each dressed in an article of Molly's clothing, and each saddled with a party hat. Her coffee table was covered with a magnificent spread of appetizers, and a large bowl of punch sat in the center, surrounded by more streamers and noisemakers. Sherlock reigned over it all, his arm wrapped around a mannequin bust she used for sewing, and his other petting a sleeping Toby. He smiled brightly at her.

"Ah, molly! You're just in time! A wonderful mystery has sprung up!"

"Can we not-?" but Molly's plea fell on deaf ears as Sherlock teleported to her side and pulled her into the pillow massacre.

"A curious thing has happened," he said, leading her through the 'crime scene.' "I had just arrived to Mr. Body Pillow's party when, much to my surprise, I found all the patrons dead! The only survive was Miss Mannequin, and she can only testify that, around midnight, the guests began to drop off like flies."

"Fascinating," Molly muttered. Sherlock didn't sense her sarcasm, and simply beamed at the 'enthusiasm' she was showing.

"What would you say the cause of death was?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, I'm very tired and…" Sherlock gave her a stern look, and with an irritable sigh, Molly bend down to investigate her pillows. The first thing she noticed was a rather sour smell coming from the fabric. "Sherlock, what did you do to my pillows?"

"Nevermind that," he waved it off. "What do you see?"

"Fine," she grumbled. She sniffed again. "They smell sour…and they're…" she placed her hand on the pillow only to discover that it was covered in something sticky. "Sherlock! What did you do to my pillows?"

"What killed them?" his expectant look made her realize he would never tell her what had befallen her poor pillows.

"They smell like alcohol…"

"Good, good!"

"But they're sticky, meaning the presence of sugar. The only thing like that in the room is the punch. Meaning the punch has been poisoned," she stood up and glanced at the punch bowl, wondering if it really was poisoned.

"Yes, good, but—"

There was always a 'but' with Sherlock's mysteries.

"—how is it, then, that Miss Mannequin survived? She arrived first, you see, and drank from the punch first. Decided it wasn't to her taste, she switched to soda, no ice. She should have been one of the first to die," he strolled over to the mannequin and hoisted it off the couch. "How did you survive?"

"I don't know," Molly said. "Maybe she has an immunity to poison, being a mannequin and all."

Sherlock's face fell, and he dropped the mannequin. He grabbed Molly by the shoulders and led her over to the punch bowl, forcing her back to bend so she could look at it closely. It was a simple, plastic bowl that had been stuffed in the back of her cupboard. She rarely used it, in fact, she was quite certain she'd thrown it out; she was mildly surprised that Sherlock had managed to find it. The punch itself was deep red with orange swirls on top, and smelled like sherbet mixed with fruit punch and alcohol. A few melted ice cubes bobbed in the frothy mix.

"Think, Molly, think!" Sherlock urged. "She arrived _first_, and was not poisoned. How?"

Molly's blank look caused Sherlock to groan.

"The ice cubes!" He cried, gesturing wildly to the bwol. "The ice cubes were poisonous! As they melted, they poisoned the punch. Miss Mannequin arrived before a lethal dosage had seeped into the punch, yet as the party wore on, the ice cubes released a lethal amount of poison, which is why everyone else died and she remained alive. Really, it was all right there in front of you!"

"Well, congratulations, Sherlock," Molly smiled. "You've solved another case."

"Hardly," he replied. "We still have to determine who the murderer is."

"I shall call this the Pillow Party Poisoner," she grinned despite herself. "A title even John would be proud of."

Sherlock glared at her before flopping onto the couch, crossing his arms, and pouting. Molly laughed lightly; a full grown, handsome man pouting because she hadn't been able to figure out his game. IT was very much like a child whose parents didn't understand the rules to some board game that the kid had made up, yet were expected to play regardless. Molly sat beside him and reached over to the tray of appetizers, grabbing a bacon wrapped scallop and plopping it into her mouth. She shut her eyes and moaned, savoring the taste. Sherlock's amazing culianary skills never ceased to amaze her.'

"He should have figured it out by now," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Who should have figured what out?" she asked.

"John!" He stood up suddenly, stalking around the coffee table and irritably kicking a pillow clad in her best evening dress. "I don't understand it. I have given him his mourning period, he should be past this by now! He should be analyzing what I said to him! He should have figured it out!"

"Sherlock, your clues were clever," Molly said. "Very clever. I could only understand how genius they were after you explained them to me." She saw Sherlock smile before turning away. "But you have to thinka bout where you were when you told him. He was more concerned about your leaping from the top of St. Bart's, and not your word choice."

He fell into a contemplative silence.

"Is this really poisoned?" Molly motioned towards the punch.

"What? No, no it's not," he muttered distractedly.

Molly helped herself to a cup.

For the past few days, the fact that John had yet to decipher Sherlock's well-worded code had been eating away at him. At times he had convinced himself that John had actually figured it out, and continued his silence as a way to annoy Sherlock. Molly had walked in on him several times, rehearsing what he would say when John finally showed up on her doorstep. Oftentimes he'd stop halfway through, muttering things like, "No, no; he'd hit me for that," or, "Come on, Sherlock, think!"

Molly was convinced that John had yet to figure out the clue. Sherlock had told her that as he was about to jump, he'd call John. "I'm a fake," he said. "I'm a fraud. It was all a magic trick." He'd been telling John that what he was about to see wasn't real; it was all an illusion that he and Molly had crafted that, upon being viewed from the right angle ("John, don't move! Go back!") would make it appear as if he were dead. John had been too wrapped up in grief to notice this, something that Sherlock seemed unable to understand.

"If you're this beaten up over it," Molly said as Sherlock moodily kicked at another pillow, "why don't you just go to his flat? You know where it is."

Sherlock remained silent. IT wasn't the first time she had suggested this straightforward approach, and it wasn't the first time it had been rejected. Sherlock enjoyed his games too much, and with Moriarty gone, he had very few people he could truly flex his brain around. The primary one was Mycroft, whom Molly quickly learned had a deduction power far greater than Sherlock's, though he was lazy to the point that it crippled him. The other was Irene Adler, and Molly could not stomach the woman. Both of them had discovered quickly that Sherlock was alive, and they texted often. Molly hated when Irene texted him, the throaty moan bothered her more than the flirtatious context. Really, Sherlock had gotten a new phone; why hadn't he replaced her ringtone?

It appeared as though Sherlock had retreated to his mental palace, and so Molly took her fill of the appetizers and headed off to shower. She would clean put the mess he'd made when she got out; she assumed all of her pillow cases would need washing. Perhaps she might even need new pillows. Leave it to Sherlock to destroy her belongings in the name of boredom.

The shower did wonders on her frayed nerves. Work had been rather tedious; a family had been brought into in the morgue today. They'd been found dead in their home. Molly had been the one to figure out it was carbon monoxide poisoning. A search of the house concluded that there were high levels of CO in the area, and that the family lacked a proper carbon monoxide detector. It was unfortunate.

Donning a cotton shirt and some shorts, she wrapped herself in a thin bathrobe and returned down stairs to begin cleaning. Sherlock had moved to perch on the windowsill, his hands pressed together and his index fingers touching his lips. He was thinking. Molly had learned quickly not to bother himw hen eh was thinking. What little social decorum he had disappeared when he was in this mode, and the things he was likely to say would wound her more than he would ever know. Sighing, she began to tidy up the area, ripping the punch soaked pillow cases off and grinning when, each time, it revealed another pillow case. So, she wouldn't have to buy new pillows after all!

Once everything was back in its place and her flat was looking slightly neater than when she'd arrived, she retreated into the kitchen to start on some paperwork she had been unable to finish at work. So engrossed was she in her notes that she didn't notice when Sherlock came right up behind her. She nearly fell off her stool when she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

"Invite him here," he said simply.

"What?"

"Invite john here."

"Sherlock, I haven't seen John in months," she spun around to face him, noting how close he was standing. She fought a losing battle with her blush. "Why would I call him out of the blue…?"

"Call him anyways," Sherlock gripped her shoulders. "Tell him you haven't heard from him in months-"

"I just told you I haven't—"

"—and that you're concerned. Ask him to come over if he has something on his mind. Tell him you can help."

"What are you getting at?" Molly said.

"He'll come," Sherlock said. "He's lonely. He hasn't been seeing anyone since I've died, very unlike the doctor who had a different girl every day of the week. You're special to him."

"What are you talking about?" Molly was bewildered. "I'm not special to John. We've barely spoken two words to each other!"

"Yes, but you know me," he let go of her shoulders and stepped back. Molly suddenly found it easier to breath. "You've known me as he's known me. Whether he realizes it or not, you've got a kinship with him. You have me in common, you've both lost me, it'll draw him to you when he realizes you were affected as well. You're the perfect candidate. If you were to invite him over, I doubt he would refuse. A pretty girl who knew Sherlock almost as intimately as he did; it's a bait he can't resist."

"And then what do I do when he gets here?" Molly crossed her arms, not liking this idea much at all.

"Well, then he'll see that I'm alive and well," Sherlock grinned, "and everything will return to normal."

"You can move back into 221b and stop harassing me," it was very hard for Molly to keep the grin off her face. "No more mysteries, no more torturing Toby…"

"I wasn't torturing Toby," Sherlock sniffed. "He was perfectly safe the entire time."

Molly sincerely doubted that.

"Text him now," Sherlock said. "And say these words exactly."

Pulling out her phone, she scrolled down to John's number.

"Say," he began, "Say, 'Hey, I've been thinking about you lately. How are you?'"

Molly did as he asked, frowning. It was as if she was trying to seduce him. She got a text back immediately.

"I've been alright. How're you? ;)"

"Oh God!" Molly held the phone away from her as if it were something foul, "he winked at me!"

"Wait for it, wait for it," Sherlock muttered.

Her phone rang again two seconds later.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I meant that to be a smile!"

"John is acharming man," Sherlock said, "I've seen him use that technique several times. He 'accidentally' sends a wink. Girls who like him will read into it, girls that don't will accept his apology afterwards."

"I see," she said. "Which girl shall I be playing?"

"The first," he thought for a few moments. "Tell him, 'Ha,ha, that's alright.' Then put a smile as well. Immediately afterwards, send another text saying, "Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to come over some time? I really need someone to talk to about…well…' Then leave it at that. He's lonely and upset; he gets a text from a friend who is also lonely and upset and wants his comfort. He'll get to play the hero; he will come over."

Molly sighed and did as he said, sending the two texts back to back. John didn't reply immediately, which caused Sherlock to grin madly.

"He's excited," he said. "If I know John, he's probably rushing about trying to look presentable; he hasn't shaved in days…he wants to look put together if you ask him over tonight."

"Is he coming over tonight?" Panic welled in her. Her apartment was a mess! She couldn't very well let John in here and think she was a big.

Her phone rang. 'Of course. When would you like to meet up?'

"Tomorrow night," Sherlock began. "Tell him to meet you here after work."

Molly complied, and received a confirming text.

"And that's that!" Sherlock said cheerfully, opening the fridge and frowning at its contents. "He'll be here, he'll get any ill feelings towards me out of his system, and things can go back to the way they were."

"Yes, the way they were," Molly muttered as her phone buzzed again. Another text from John. She smiled.

Molly and John ended up texting each other until they both fell asleep.

AN: So, what did you think? It's been a while since I've written anything, and constructive criticism is always welcome!


	2. Black Friars

Molly knew that there would be no mystery awaiting her today. She doubted Sherlock had left the sanctity of the bathroom long enough to prepare something for her. That wasn't very likely either, as she had offended him in the worst way possible and decided that the only proper retaliation was the good old fashioned silent treatment. Biting her lip, she pushed open the door to her flat, and a quick scan revealed that everything was the exact same way it had been when she'd left. The breakfast she'd left out for Sherlock that morning had gone stone cold, the plate having not moved an inch, and the pack of cigarettes and lighter she'd placed at the base of the bathroom door had been untouched. Had she not been so upset by his actions, should would have commended Sherlock on his tenacity.

Sitting heavily on the couch, she stared sullenly at the bathroom door. She realized that she'd hurt Sherlock, yet she found it increasingly hard to feel terrible about it. Sure, she had messed up badly and realized that it was within Sherlock's rights to be perfectly pissed at her, but as his silence continued, she found herself growing more and more annoyed with him. She'd already apologized. How many more apologies did he need?

She'd apologized for everything she could think of. She apologized for not texting him back while she was at work. She apologized for turning her phone off when John stepped through the door of her labs, a smile on his face and a small bouquet of flowers tucked under his arm. She had apologized for being out so late, and most importantly of all, she had apologized a hundred times for forgetting to invite John up to her flat.

But when push came to shove, she found she simply couldn't do it. It had seemed wrong. Standing there awkwardly on the steps to her apartment building, staring into John's smiling face…even now it felt as if her heart had sprouted wings and was banging repeatedly against her ribcage. She had hesitated when retreating to the comforts of her flat, for the first time all night feeling inexplicably nervous. John had noted this, and with a few long strides was before her. He gave her the most perfect of kisses, causing her head to spin and temporarily making her forget how to breathe. She felt disoriented in the most delightful way, as if she were being gentle thrown about in a tornado. By the time she had regained her senses, John had slipped into the crowd and disappeared from Drury Lane.

She began the long walk to her flat, still in La-La Land. During the course of her life, she had experienced many kisses. Some where wet and sloppy, others were tight and exact…but that kiss had been on a completely different level. It had been sweet, soft, gentle, warm, and loving. She felt as if she were walking on water, as if her feet were only lightly skimming the surface of reality, and she herself was dancing in fantasy. She opened the door, however, and felt herself immediately fall to earth, hitting the ground with a sickening crack.

Sherlock stood there, his back straight, his hands behind his back, and for all the world looking like a general displeased with his subordinate. He was facing the window, looking down on the crowds that always bustled past the intersection with a painfully blank expression on his face. She dropped her purse, forgot to shut the door, and rushing towards him.

"I'm so sorry," she had sputtered, but Sherlock held up his hand, cutting off the rest of her apology.

"I thought better of you, Molly," he said. His face and tone were impassive, and that was what made Molly feel positively ill.

Without another word, he had swept past her and into the bathroom. The lock clicked into place, and the sound of running water hitting the bathtub echoed in her silent apartment. It was then that she broke down, sobbing apology after apology to the door. A few times she heard Sherlock breathing just on the other side, but he made nothing to suggest that he had heard her or accepted her apology. Defeated, she had trudged up to bed.

Taking off her shoes, Molly resisted the urge to chuck them at the back of the door. If he was going to act childish, then she had every right to as well. She reeled her arm back, her flat held snuggly in her fist, when the door swung open with such ferocity that she dropped her shoe behind the couch in surprise.

Sherlock looked no worse for wear, even despite the fact that he'd spend the better part of two days locked in Molly's bathroom. That made her angry, for some reason. She looked like a mess after only a few days; how was he able to go a full twelve hours and look as if he'd just come off a runway? Molly removed her other shoe and threw it a tad too hard onto the carpet.

In the meantime, Sherlock was staring curiously at Molly, as if she were some strange culture perpetuating in a petri dish. She had only fallen under Sherlock's scrutiny a few times before, and each time it felt as if she were some intriguing specimen he was itching to dissect. "What makes you work?" that look said. It was a strange feeling; halfway between flattered and perturbed.

"You have feelings for John," he said. Molly blinked. "That's why you didn't invite him up."

"No…" the rest of, 'shit Sherlock' died on her lips as her anger ebbed away. Sherlock was speaking to her again.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "The three date rule. That's what you were thinking about, at least subconsciously, anyway."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? You're not making any sense," Molly tried her hardest to look annoyed, but couldn't help the smile that was spreading across her face. Sherlock was talking to her again! She felt like laughing.

"Societal norms, of course, not that I've ever followed them. " He waved them off and began to pace. "It means you wouldn't want to come off as easy."

"What? I don't understand."

"Then let me explain," Sherlock exclaimed, "You're listening to office gossip in the break room, and some secretary has just gone out on a date. What do they usually talk about, aside from how it went, how attractive he was, and any mishaps that happen?"

"Oh! I get it!" Molly said, "They always end up asking if they ended up sleeping together."

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded, "which is when the third date rule comes into play."

"That's the appropriate number of dates you have to go on before it's acceptable to sleep with someone," Molly said. "That's what you think happened? Why I didn't invite John up? Why it felt…wrong?"

"Exactly," Sherlock nodded. "Everyone knows about the three date rule, even John. You like him, you think highly of him…you want him to think highly of you," He turned to face towards the street, his hands clasped behind his back. "You weren't about to invite him in on the first date and have him believe that you're just some sort of capricious tart."

"I didn't do it purposefully! I swear, Sherlock, I-"

"It was an unconscious decision on your part and I hardly fault you for it," he said.

"So, you're not mad at me anymore?" Molly ventured uneasily.

"I was never upset with you, I just needed time to think," he shut his eyes. " I couldn't have you chattering at me when I was posed with a problem…"

It was as close to an, 'I forgive you,' as she was going to get, and it felt as if some heavy weight had been lifted off her chest. Sherlock had forgiven her. It was as if Christmas had come early. She scooted over on the couch and padded a cushion, causing Sherlock to leave his position by the window and sit beside her. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back, a pleased expression on his face. It must have been fun, figuring out Molly's motives when she herself had no idea why she'd done such a thing. He'd been able to stretch his brain for the first time in months.

"Yes, with all this said and done," Sherlock stretched, "our next course of action is quite easy."

"Wait, you still plan on using me to get to John, don't you?" Molly said.

Sherlock smiled, and Molly suddenly felt sick.

"We wait for the third date, you invite him over, and we're back on schedule," Sherlock said. "When did you plan your next get together with John?"

"I haven't, Sherlock, listen," she sighed. "I really like John."

"Yes, I deduced that," he looked at her suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

"Like, really like John."

"Yes, you're infatuated with him," Sherlock sat up, his tone suddenly clipped. "I would hardly call that anything close to love."

"I wasn't saying that! I just think that…well…maybe eventually… Look at it this way." She said. "The whole third date thing only exists because two people really need some time to get to know each other before they…you know…"

"Have sex, yes." Molly winced. Leave it to Sherlock to reduce a big step in a relationship down to a few blunt words.

"Well, let's say John and I get to that point. We've gone on a few more dates, and now we're ready. We trust each other enough to…to…"

"Have sex. Really Molly, we're not five years old," Sherlock scolded.

"Imagine how he'd feel," Molly ignored him and tried to fight the blush that was creeping up her face, "if all of a sudden I reveal you're alive, and it becomes known that I've known all along. He'd feel betrayed. And…I'm afraid of what would happen to us then."

This was so strange. Here she was, sitting on the couch with the man that had been the apple of her eye for years now, calmly (or, in her case, not so calmly) talking about having sex with Sherlock's best friend. She felt as if someone had written down her emotions on scraps of paper, stuffed them into a jar, and shaken it violently. Confused was too kind of a word; she felt as if she were in a whirlwind of uncertainties and 'what if's.' She felt guilty about liking John, Sherlock's best friend, and confusion as to her guilt. Why did she need to feel guilty when Sherlock had never been hers in the first place? She was also angry at Sherlock for making her feel horrid about having had such a wonderful night. She couldn't get rid of the giddy feeling that cropped up every time someone mentioned John's name, and there was that looming sense of dread. She felt as if she were being dragged down by a current, and she was too weak to escape.

"What would happen to us?" Sherlock said. "Well, I would move back into Baker Street, and you would have free reign of your flat once more."

"That's not what I meant," Molly snapped. "I meant what would happen to John and I."

A look of pure displeasure passed behind his eyes before it was replaced by careful indifference. "Ah. You wish to continue your relationship with John after all is said and done."

"I would like to," Molly muttered, her blush spreading to her forehead.

"Well," Sherlock said, "I highly doubt that such a level of trust and attraction will develop between the two of you within the next few dates, and as such, I see nothing wrong with my original plan. That being said, I'm starving."

He stood and headed off to the kitchen, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts. It was as if she'd swallowed cotton; her mouth was dry and her throat was itchy, and something thick and uncomfortable had settled at the bottom of her stomach. She lay down on the couch and shut her eyes, hoping that everything would make more sense when she opened them.

The next day found Molly being kidnapped from the lobby of St. Bartholomew's Hospital by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

As it turned out, the victims of carbon monoxide poisoning that had floated through the morgue a few days ago had died under rather suspicious circumstances, and Scotland Yard was opening a full investigation into the incident. Molly, who had been the lead examiner on the bodies, had been requested to make a statement to a task force.

Ever since Sherlock had 'died,' Scotland Yard had found that mysteries were harder to solve, and so task forces had been cropping up left and right around London. The task force Molly was set to meet had been following a string of deaths that had all occurred within a month of each other, on the same day, at the same time; it had been enough to arouse Lestrade's suspicion. The detective had learned a few things by working with Sherlock, and he had pressed the issue until a task force had been formed and discovered that yes, all of the 'natural deaths' were highly suspicious.

Making a statement, however, turned out to be a full-on presentation including diagrams, medical jargon, and photographs of the autopsies she had performed, set before a group of sour-faced, eagle-eyed individuals in a cramped, warm room. She'd been forced to sign a contract stating, and she paraphrased here, that what happened in the room stayed in the room before she was ushered in for a grueling hour and a half.

Molly felt as if she were back at Uni, performing delicate incisions under the watchful gaze of half-a-dozen medical experts. By the end, her head was pounding and her vision was swimming. They had grilled every last bit of information out of her, asking her to explain every photo, result, and the reason for each and every rest. Thankfully, she had performed a textbook autopsy, and so the council had few questions after her initial explanations. She was finally released from the stuffy room, and took a few minutes in the cool lobby to regain her wits.

Sitting in a chair and drinking from a small paper cup that Lestrade had handed her, she watched the bustling lobby. People were periodically brought in wearing handcuffs and checked in with the receptionist before being dragged into the back rooms that held the cells. Children entered on occasion, reporting missing pets or stolen bikes, or asking permission to stakeout certain sidewalks in order to sell cookies or marmalade to earn a few pounds. Adults made up a majority of the raucous; storming in and waving parking tickets, or filing out claims, or reporting stolen property. Despite the noise, her headache slowly eased away. Leaving a note to thank Lestrade for the water, she exited the building and promptly bumped into John.

"John!" She exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Molly," he smiled, "I could ask you the same thing."

"Oh, they needed a statement about some bodies I examine…" she said, "is everything alright? You look…well, you look terrible, John."

John laughed hollowly. "Yes, well…while I was at work, Mrs. Hudson claimed that someone broke into my flat."

Molly gasped. "Is she alright?"

"A bit shaken up. Nothing her glaucoma medication can't handle," he said. "The strange thing is, he didn't seem to take anything. Apparently, after seeing hercome up the stairs, he feld out the window."

"Odd…do you think he was waiting for you?"

"It's the only thing I could think of," John sighed. "He was expecting me, and when Mrs. Hudson showed up, he panicked and left. The only thing she can tell me was that he was a rather tall bloke and wore dark clothing."

Molly suddenly knew who had broken into John's flat.

"Well, I'm glad you're alright," she said earnestly. "If there's anything I can do, let me know, yeah? I'll be back at the lab…"

"Oh, there is one thing," John smiled. "I wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening the other night."

Molly blushed crimson.

"It's the most fun I've had since…well," John's smile faltered for a second. "I was just wondering if you'd like to do it again sometime?"

"Oh God, yes," Molly breathed out on impulse. She froze, and John grinned broadly at the response. "I mean…yes…I'd love to…"

"Then I'll call you later on tonight so we can set something up," John said. "For now, I have a break-in to report. I'll see you later, Molly."

"Bye, John."

He left her standing on the sidewalk, her head spinning.

AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, all three of you! I feel a bit rusty, and your feedback is very heartening.

MarvelousMonster: I'm glad you eventually liked what I did with Molly. I've always imagined Molly as a strong character and, when it comes to Sherlock, less of a push-over than how she's portrayed in a lot of other stories. She's still completely awe-struck by him, but living with him for such a long time has broken the illusion that he's perfect.

Araminta18: I'm glad you liked Sherlock making up mysteries. xD I thought that, since he can't exactly shoot Molly's wall (more due to the fact that Molly doesn't own a gun, and much less to do with the fact that it would upset her landlord), he had to find some other outlet to let his mind go wild. It also went along with what Sergeant Sally Donovan said; how eventually Sherlock would end up doing the crime. Although, in this case, the victims were pillows.

Eccentricpetal: I agree with you there! The thought of them being together as a plot point in a Sherlolly fic has always tickled me pink. How would Sherlock act when his two best friends start dating each other? Obviously, he doesn't like it, and it offers a lot of unique avenues to travel down. Also, as much as I love a bumbling John, I always imagined him being suave (in an absolutely, "D'aaaw! I wanna pinch your cheeks" sort of way) around the ladies. I'm glad you liked it!

Again, please read and review! Criticism of any nature is welcomed. I know it's a bit slow moving, but I promise the next chapter will have a bit more action (and a lot more humor) in it.


	3. The Phoenix or the Cockpit

"You look…"

"If you say, 'like a streetwalker,' I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, I will slap you."

"…absolutely lovely?"

Sherlock did all he could to suppress his grin, and Molly shot him a scathing look. Reaching for a washcloth, she scrubbed her fifth attempt at makeup off until it was nothing more than pink and flesh colored smudges on the white fabric. She sighed, hanging her head and bracing herself against the counter, cursing the whole cosmetics industry with a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush.

Molly had never gotten the hang of makeup. Her mother had been a very practical woman, shunning the normal parenting methods for one focused purely on education and sensibleness. As a result, Molly had become a published doctor of some renown working at one of the best hospitals in London, but had no idea how to put on blush or foundation. When other little girls had been playing dress up with gaudy plastic jewelry, she'd been slaving away over textbooks. She loved her mother to death, she really did, she just wished she'd at least given her a makeup tutorial once in her childhood.

As such, she had to rely on the Internet. After having done a bit of research, Molly had disappeared to the shops and returned with her arms filled with makeup. Then, she'd dragged her trusty laptop to the bathroom, set it up on a hamper, and found a few videos on how to do makeup. The women in the videos, however, were not doing anything for her self-esteem.

"Now, take your brush like this…" Molly had tried to mimic the position, "and gently…" with a single swoop, the woman applied her eye shadow perfectly. Molly's, however, did not come out that way; the wrinkles in her eyelid had caused the brush to skip, leaving stark white skin peeking through the bright copper color she'd tried to apply.

After her second attempt had reduced her to frothing at the mouth, Sherlock had entered the bathroom with a bemused expression on his face. He'd sat on the tub, and watched her, often chuckling or outright laughing whenever she reached for a brush, a color, or any bottle littering the vanity. It was as if she were some huge inside joke to him.

Throwing the makeup brush onto the vanity, she turned on Sherlock. Sherlock, whose lips had been pressed into a tight line to keep from making any insulting comments, smiled. Molly glared. Sherlock's smile widened.

"Enjoying yourself?" She snapped.

"I'll admit," Sherlock said, "I haven't been this amused in a while. Tell me, did you really think that color of blush suited you?"

Molly threw her hands up, exasperated.

"It's the color the woman in the video used!" she exclaimed. "She said it was good for warm skin tones."

"Warm skin tones?" Sherlock sprang up gracefully from the side of the tub. "Molly, do you even know what having a warm skin tone means?" He approached until he stood right behind her. Gripping her by the shoulders, he forced her to stare at herself in the mirror. Molly struggled against the blush that was forming. "You most certainly do not have a warm skin tone; look, if anything you have blue undertones…"

"What does that even mean?" She sighed, feeling thoroughly defeated.

"Look," Sherlock reached over her.

His arm brushed against her, and Molly suddenly felt unable to breathe. Even though she had her sights set on John, there would always be that animalistic attraction to Sherlock that caused her breath to leave her in gusts and sparks to shoot off of the contacted area. Even living with him hadn't gotten her used to the few occasions when they actually touched. It came as a shock to her each time, as if someone had touched live wires to her skin.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice, and proceeded to pick up two necklaces she'd carelessly discarded on the vanity when she was picking out her outfit. She'd decided not to wear either, not because they didn't match her outfit, but because she hadn't been able to clasp them around her neck. Whoever made necklace clasps must have been a genius who liked puzzles. She wondered if Sherlock had made necklace clasps…

Being this close to him was making her dizzy.

Sherlock held the two necklaces above her head so that the chains and attached ornaments brushed against her cheeks. She shivered as the cold metal touched her blushing face.

"Look," he repeated, "and tell me which one looks better on you."

"I'm sorry? I don't," Molly glanced up at Sherlock using the mirror. He was watching her face intently.

"The necklaces, Molly. If I were to strip you naked right now, and put one necklace on you, which would look better?"

The thought of Sherlock stripping her in her bathroom just so he could put a necklace on her nearly made her swoon.

"The silver one," she blurted out, attempting and failing to control her blush. "I would look better in the silver one…I think…"

"And, would you say, silver is a warm color?" Sherlock placed the gold necklace on the vanity, his arm brushing past Molly's. She had to shut her eyes and clench her teeth together.

"No," she said. If Sherlock didn't leave the bathroom soon, she was sure to pass out and miss her date with John. "It's not."

Sherlock looked pleased with himself as he clasped the chain and silver swan ornament around her neck with deft hands. "It's a simple test; if you look better in silver jewelry, then you have a cool skin tone. If you look better in gold, you have a warm skin tone," he was so close that she could feel his breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. :Now, knowing that, let's re-pick all of this," he motioned to the makeup spread over the vanity. "It's completely wrong."

He sat Molly down on the side of the tub, Molly not having the mind to protest, and began pouring over the powders, creams, and tubes that littered the vanity. He plucked a few out, examined them against the light, before deciding that they were acceptable. He then turned on Molly.

"Hold still," he commanded. His voice fluttered over her like silk, and Molly found that she couldn't disobey, even if she wanted to.

Sherlock applied her makeup for her, and had she not been distracted by how close his face was to hers, she was sure she'd feel embarrassed. After all, here was a man applying a woman's makeup because she was inept at it. It made her flush. Or it would have. Halfway through, Sherlock demanded she stop blushing so he could apply the proper amount of the artificial blush. It was easier said than done, but after a few moments she was able to control herself.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock stepped back and smiled approvingly. He practically dragged Molly to the mirror so she could also marvel at his work, and marvel she did. She hardly recognized herself. Her round chin looked pointed and elegant, her cheekbones prominent and seductive (if cheekbones could be considered seductive, Molly mused. A glance at Sherlock assured her that they were), her eyes which had always seemed to big for her face were now dainty and elegant and fit her face perfectly.

"Sherlock," she breathed, "have you ever considered doing this professionally?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue at her. "Too dull."

"I'm sorry for boring you, then," She turned to face him and smiled brightly. "Thank you, though. I should get dressed…I'm supposed to meet John soon."

Ah yes, the meeting with John, and the reason for Molly's 'dolling up.' After the two had met outside of Scotland Yard, they'd arraigned a time and place for their next meeting. Molly had, at first, thought it would be an informal affair, until John mentioned he'd managed to get reserved seats at Dabbous, one of the trendiest restaurants in London. Suddenly, Molly found herself frantically attempting to pull together a decent outfit and make herself look like something other than the frumpy pathologist she actually was.

She'd picked out a nice cute black dress that her friends had gotten her forever ago, and thanks to Sherlock's help, she looked perfectly stunning. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she grabbed the small clutch she'd dug out of her closet and stared into the hallway mirror to inspect her appearance once more.

"Careful," Sherlock teased as he crossed the kitchen to inspect the contents of the fridge. "Don't want your head to get too big. You might not fit through the door."

"Haha, very funny," Molly said, tearing her gaze away from the mirror and turning to Sherlock, who was leaning casually against the counter with a tight smile on his face. "Do I look alright?"

"You look lovely, Molly," he replied.

"Really? You're a very good liar," Molly said.

"If I thought you looked like rubbish, I'd have told you," Sherlock replied. "No go, or else you'll be later."

Molly grinned at him, waved her goodbye, and exited her flat. She felt positively giddy; she felt like a movie star. She didn't get dressed up often, partly due to her fear of female cosmetics, and simply because it wasn't practical. She worked in a morgue; who did she have to impress? The stiffs they rolled in? The cultures sitting in a fridge? They didn't particularly care about her clothes.

Trotting down the stairs, she swung out of the front doors and nearly lost her footing when she spotted John at the bottom of them. He turned towards her and smiled, though it dropped from his face immediately afterward, and suddenly his full attention had been diverted to her. Molly had frozen, her body hunched unattractively in her attempt to stop her almost fall.

"Molly," John breathed. "You look…well…I," a blush crept up neck. "I feel underdressed."

"Don't say that," Molly whimpered. Had she overdone it?

"No, no, you look amazing, I mean, wow Molly," John smiled and laughed a bit. "You look simply…ravishing."

Molly straightened herself as every single one of her nerves began to tingle. She smiled, but was too breathless, and descended the stairs to join him. He was a bit shorter than her in the modest pair of heels she'd put on, and she suddenly felt odd. The notion that she was overdressed had stuck with her, and compared to John, who had chosen a pair of slacks and a simple button down shirt, she felt as if she'd shown up to a semi-formal dance in a ball gown.

He took her hand and squeezed, and warmth flooded up her arm. She smiled at him, and the two stepped out onto the street, towards the intersection.

"I was a bit surprised," Molly admitted once John had hailed a cab and the two had stepped inside. "I thought we were meeting there."

"Well, we were but I just couldn't wait to see you," John smiled, and Molly felt the butterflies in her stomach kick up another notch.

'That's just anxiety,' a voice similar to Sherlock's chided in her head. 'It's not an indication of love.'

"I…" Molly blushed, and John gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Huh. He hadn't let it go. "Thank you."

Being with John, Molly decided, was like sinking into a warm bath after a long, hard day. After being strung-out and tensed up all day, he was the perfect thing she needed to relax. He was always ready with a smile, eager with a compliment, anything to make her feel happy and at home. She forgot all her worries when she was with John.

He was in stark contrast to Sherlock, when she really thought about it. She always felt as if she were under inspection when it came to Sherlock. She had to stand at attention, her uniform perfect, the sheets of her bed pulled so tight she could bounce a coin off it. He sent electricity through the veins, sharp, sudden, and unpredictable.

Being with John was like a breath of fresh air. With a content sigh, she dared to lean her head against John's shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, and Molly couldn't help the soft sigh that escaped her lips. John smiled and played with the ends of her hair, sending pleasurable shivers down her back. Yes, she decided as she breathed in his musky smell. She could get used to this.

Molly arrived home very late that night. Sherlock watched her kiss John goodbye, the latter leaning her against the cab as he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. Sherlock felt his jaw tense and his nails dig into the palms of his hands. He darted out of sight as the two broke up for air; he couldn't risk John seeing him now. If John were to discover him now, that would hurt Molly's feelings. And for some reason, hurting Molly's feelings mattered to him.

He'd been to 221b Baker Street the other day; his investigation of the place had been cut short when Mrs. Hudson had trumped unsuspectingly up the stairs. All of his things had been packed into boxes, yet had not been moved out of the flat yet. Judging by the papers littering John's desk, they were slowly moving them all into storage. He'd also discovered his plans with Molly; John had reserved those seats days in advance; it seemed he knew when she had the day off. Sherlock was about to laugh victoriously, (really, victoriously? What did he have to feel victorious about?) when he recalled that John had probably memorized her days off due Sherlock's own trips to the morgue. It made him feel somewhat ill. Sherlock sat heavily on the couch.

Molly stumbled up the stairs a bit later; typical. They'd been unable to handle the delicate palate of the fancy restaurant, and they had afterwards decided to head to a bar. So very typical of John. They'd drunk a bit too much, hence the rather public display of affection on the cab outside of the flat, and Molly's shaking hands as she struggled to fit her key into the lock. She fell in, giggling. So very disquieting.

He waited until she'd made her way to the living room and turned on the lights. She gasped and nearly lost her balance.

"Sherlock! You're still up?" Molly sagged up against the side of the wall.

"Yes. I couldn't sleep," Sherlock replied.

"Well, you didn't have to stay awake in the dark," Molly giggled and went to collapse next to him. He leapt up as if the couch were suddenly diseased.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked.

"Yes," she grinned up at him. "I had the most wonderful time. John is amazing."

"Ah. Yes…well…good…good for you," Sherlock didn't spare her a glance as he climbed the stairs to the guest room he had claimed as his own.

He ignored the painful tightening in his chest. It had nothing to do with the fact that he could never make Molly beam like that, and more to do with the fact that John's sloppy kissing had ruined the careful job Sherlock had done with her makeup. That's all it was, he told himself.


	4. CrossKeys

BANG

BANG

BANG

"Molly! Molly!"

Sherlock's frantic cries nearly made Molly tumble over in the shower. It felt as if someone had driven a spike through her heart, so violently did it leap when Sherlock first began his attack on the bathroom door. With each subsequent bang, his voice became more hysterical, and the thought that something had gone terribly wrong grew. Caught up in the shower curtain, Molly struggled out of her shower, soaking the bathmat as she hastily wrapped a cotton bathrobe around herself and, slipping and sliding to the bathroom door, managed to wrench it open.

"What is it, Sherlock? What's wrong?" She said, her heart still pounding, and her eyes scanning the room behind him to see where the trouble was.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I – what?"

"Your shower; you've taken an extra five minutes. I was wondering if everything was alright. With John," he asked again, seeming perfectly composed for a man who had just spent the last five minutes nearly breaking her door down.

"So there's nothing wrong?" Molly grit her teeth together.

"Only that you've spent an extra five minutes in —" Sherlock was cut off as Molly slammed the door in his face and let out a small scream of frustration.

That man! That man scared her nearly half to death in order to ask if she was alright? Because she'd taken five extra minutes in the shower? Casting her bathrobe from her, she stormed into the shower, nearly ripping the curtains off their rungs as she did so. No longer shivering in the cold, Molly finished shaving her legs, all the while fuming at her roommate.

He had been doing this for several days now; scaring her then asking if everything was alright with John. He'd come into her bedroom a few mornings ago, asking if everything was okay, armed with a tub of ice cream and some cookie dough. Was everything okay with John? Or the other night, when she'd been watching this movie called Marley and Me, and when the dog died, she'd just blubbered like an idiot. Sherlock had hugged her so tenderly; it had made her heart leap, and then asked her if everything was okay…

…with John.

With John! With John! With John!

What was his recent obsession with John? Even before they'd agreed on this third date rule, Sherlock hadn't obsessed. He had merely looked curious and said, "I would like to reunite with John," then set about his plan. There was no fussing, but now, it seemed as if Molly couldn't deviate from her normal schedule without Sherlock standing right there, asking if she were alright? Was it about John? Was there anything he could do? She just wanted to pluck those gorgeous blue eyes from his head, she was so angry.

She shaved her legs with fury, a task that is better done calmly, and ended up nicking herself near the ankle. She hissed as soap stung the small cut, then decided it was high time she exit the shower, lest Sherlock have an aneurism. She stepped out onto the soaked bathmat, wincing as the cold, damp cloth touched her bare feet. Drying off, she hung the bathmat and her soaked bathrobe over the shower rod to dry, then slapped a bandage on her ankle before exiting the bathroom.

Sherlock was in the living room, dangling a broken hair from his violin's bow for Toby to bat at. She watched the two for a moment, her anger ebbing away as she watched the man she'd had a crush on for so long play with her cat. The moment was broken, however, when Sherlock looked up and smiled.

"Is eve-"

"No, Sherlock, everything is not alright," she snapped. "And it has nothing to do with John and everything to do with you."

Sherlock looked confused and laid his bow down across his lap, causing Toby to attack his leg. He winced and pushed the cat off.

"Have I been bothering you lately?" he asked innocently.

"You bloody well know you have!" she said. "Every time I turn around you're standing there asking if everything is alright with John. If I eat something I normally don't, 'Is everything alright with John?' If I'm reading a section of the news paper I don't normally read, 'Is everything alright with John?' Really, Sherlock, enough is enough!"

"I'm just making sure that –"

"I don't care what you're making sure of," Molly said. "What happens between John and I stays between John and I! If I have a problem, I will talk to you, or one of my mates, trust me; I'm not good at keeping my problems to myself. You being the only exception."

Sherlock looked shocked. "I'm a problem?"

"Lately you have been." She sighed and plopped down into a nearby chair. She rubbed her temples.

"Molly," he ventured carefully, "I don't mean to be a nuisance, but you have to understand that this is all very…odd to me. Emotions aren't my area of expertise, and whatever it is between you and John…if that breaks up, there's a small chance that John and I will never reconnect. That's why I've been so…attentive lately."

"Your attentiveness is killing me, Sherlock," Molly said. "I appreciate your concern. I really, honestly, do. But if feels like you're stifling me! Sherlock, I know you're concerned, but have a little faith in me, okay?"

Sherlock didn't reply, only picked up his violin bow and made a few swats at Toby, who had been inching steadily closer. Molly sighed and stood up, having this vague impression that Sherlock hadn't really listened to a word she said.

"I'm going to get dressed," she announced, "and if you come banging on my door and telling me I've taken longer to dress than normal, I swear to God I will gouge those pretty blue eyes right out of your head."

"Dully noted," Sherlock replied, though a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Pretty?"

Molly flushed. "You know what I mean."

"Still, pretty?" His smile grew.

Molly would have thrown her arms up in exasperation and they not been keeping her towel firmly in place around her chest. She turned quickly and headed up the stairs, muttering curses at the genius who had taken to poking at Toby with his bow again.

The evening passed uneventfully, and Molly arrived at work the next day feeling tired and worn-out. Living with Sherlock was taxing; how had John managed to do it? Opening her laptop on her desk in the lab, she checked her emails quickly before starting on some paperwork. She had a cadaver had just arrived; another carbon monoxide victim. She'd already alerted Scotland Yard, and later on in the afternoon the whole task force was supposed to come in and watch the procedure. She wasn't looking forward to that, having recalled her previous encounter with the task force.

She leaned back in her chair and covered her eyes. There had been so much going on in her life that it was becoming hard to concentrate. Between work, Sherlock, and John, she felt like she was going crazy? And when was the last time she'd played with Toby? The poor cat was stuck at home with only Sherlock for company. Feeling a headache come on, she laid her head in her arms.

She used to have a blog; it had been therapeutic, although, compared to John and Sherlock's blogs it had been severely lacking in content. The only person who read it had been Moriarty. Now that her only follower was dead, however…Molly bit her lip and pulled up her blog. It was just as she'd left it; pink, covered in kittens. It had been an inside joke; something to go along with her spinster-esque nature, but they garish website had started to grow on her. Even though she knew no one was listening to her, it was nice just to get her thoughts out there for once.

Maybe she'd start it up again, who knew? She could at least talk about what was going on at the morgue, with the carbon monoxide victims, maybe even talk about Sherlock. She grinned. She could tell the world that she'd adopted another cat, though this one was troublesome and needy. She giggled at the prospect; yes, she'd restart her blog.

At that moment, the secretary entered the room and announced that the Task Force was here. She swore; she'd thought she had a little more time. Standing, Molly grabbed her lab coat and instructed for them to wait in the lobby while she prepared the lab for a dissection. After everything was sanitized and the cadaver was rolled in, the task force took their positions by the back wall.

Molly should have been a teacher. The way she explained each procedure, what they saw, and why she was doing certain things was on a professor level. The task force took notes, some looking impressed by the professionalism with which Molly conducted herself. It made her beam with pride. Whenever she was around Sherlock, she was a mess. She dropped things, stuttered, lost track of what she was doing; if Sherlock had been watching, she would have been as clumsy as a pre-med student.

It took the greater part of the day to work on the cadaver, but at last a full autopsy had been performed. Now, she explained, they had to wait for the results from the lab. She would send them post haste, and with a handshake and a few words exchanged with each member, the task force filed out, leaving only Molly and her cadaver.

Molly returned to her desk, preparing the necessary paperwork for the recent victim while her assistant, a young, skittish woman by the name of Viola, packed the cadaver away and sanitized the lab. It wasn't long before Molly had grown bored and was staring at her computer screen, her blog glaring in the sterilized lab.

With a sudden decisiveness, she turned and poised her fingers over the keys. She would start it up again. There was no reason not to; no one read it, and keeping an online diary of sorts would do wonders for her right now.

"Hey, everyone," she wrote, "Although I know that no one is reading this, but I can pretend I have an audience, right? Even though I said I was ending my blog, I've decided that I should pick it up again. I took in another cat about four months ago, and this one's a bit of a trouble maker. I've named him…" here she paused before grinning, "Skippy. He is needy, and more often than once has decided to tear up the apartment. He's even mean to poor old Toby! The good news is that I might not become a crazy cat lady after all, despite the fact that I now have two furry little darlings to deal with." At this point, she couldn't stop laughing. Referring to Sherlock as a "furry little darling" was a bit too much for her. "I've got a proper boyfriend, now; and this time it's not a psychotic killer. Oh, right…I forgot to mention that. Jim, from IT? Absolutely mad. But this new one…John; he's fantastic! He—"

"Knock, knock!" A decidedly male voice rang through the lab, causing Molly to jump.

Speak of the devil, and so he shall appear, they say. John stood in the doorway, an uncertain grin plastered to his face. Molly was quick to shut her laptop, swearing as a pen got lodged between the screen and keyboard. She quickly pulled it out, and blushed. How embarrassing was it to be caught by the guy you like making a blog post about him?

"Looking at porn, are we?" he teased as he drew near.

"N-no! I would never!" She replied, completely mortified as she struggled to her feet. S; he suddenly found that the simple task of balancing was a bit much for her at the moment.

"I'm teasing, you know," John grinned and placed his hands on her shoulder. He kissed her gently on the lips, causing her heart to stutter to a stop. "You smell…"

"Like dead bodies?" Molly said. "Yeah; just performed an autopsy."

"And I missed it?" John laughed. "Anyway, I was wondering if you weren't busy, would you like to catch some lunch? I'm on my break right now."

Checking her watch, Molly was shocked to see that the morning had already slipped away, and it was steadily nearing one o'clock. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled impatiently.

"I'd love to!" She said as he stomach growled again. "Let me just…" removing her lab coat and placing it on the hook, Molly drew her wind breaker on and followed John out of the morgue.

The café John had picked was nearby. It was a cozy place, with wooden floors and comfortable, iron chairs positioned around wire-iron tables. The two chose to sit outside, as it was a nice day and a rare luxury for two people who generally worked indoors. Molly relaxed, letting the sun's warm rays wash across her cheeks before deciding to look at the menu that they had received.

"How has your day been so far?" John asked amiably as he ordered their drinks from the waiter.

"Interesting; another body came in…I had to perform an autopsy in front of a task force from Scotland Yard," Molly explained.

"Scotland Yard?" His eyes widened.

"They think that all these carbon monoxide related deaths are suspicious; they're labeling them homicides," she shrugged. "They got together a task force and everything."

"Makes me wish Sherlock were still alive," judging by the look on John's face, that wasn't what he had intended to say. He paled considerable and fidgeted with the sleeve of his jumper. "He'd have probably figured it out by now."

Molly smiled and reached across the table, stilling John's hands. "I'm sure he would have…but we'll have to make do without him. Scotland Yard is full of intelligent people."

"They were only looked stupid next to Sherlock," John laughed. "Some days I was certain he would be sucking the intelligence right out of people."

Molly laughed just as an older looking man took a seat a few tables away from theirs. He coughed loudly into his handkerchief before burying his face in a newspaper. Molly paid him no mind. After taking the man's drink order, the waiter approached John and Molly. The two ordered their meals.

"I miss him, you know," John sighed. "Baker Street's not the same since he died. I'm considering moving out."

"Moving out of Baker Street?" For some reason, this prospect shocked her. "But it's such a lovely set of apartments…and Mrs. Hudson has decreased your rent again since you…lost your roommate."

"Yes, well," John folded his hands, "it has too many memories."

The old man coughed again. Molly paid him no mind.

"It's so lonely there, now. I get no visitors, there's no odd things to be found in the fridge..it's boring," John laughed. "God, look at me. No heads in the fridge, and therefore my life is boring! What has that man done to me?"

"What has he done to all of us?" she asked and smiled.

The waiter delivered their meals, as well as the old man's drink. Their conversation eventually shifted away from Sherlock, something that Molly was pleased about as she wasn't sure how long she could go on. Lying about Sherlock's death wasn't easy. Especially when she was lying to John, someone she cared deeply for. It hurt her to see how much Sherlock's death had affected him. Even now, though his face was slightly flushed by her presence and his conversation was upbeat, his smile didn't reach his eyes the way it used to. Sherlock's death was a constant shadow over his life, and it again made her worry about his reaction when the whole illusion was revealed.

Would he leave her?

Half-an-hour later, John escorted Molly back to St. Bart's before heading off to his own private practice. Her belly now warm and full, she felt as if she could chug through the rest of her paperwork and return home early. Or, she could spread it out and return home later, as being alone with Sherlock had turned into a rather wearisome job. As she approached the hospital, however, a young, attractive brunette blocked her progress.

"Miss Hooper?" she asked, glancing up from her cell phone for a few seconds. "You're to come with me."

AN: Thank you all for the reviews, story alerts, and favorites. It's very heartening! As always, review…err, if you feel like it, that is. Criticism is always welcomed!

GettingOverGreta: Thank you for noticing the John/Sherlock contrast. I was hoping someone would. I made it a bit obvious, but to have you point it out makes me feel as if I'm not failing too miserably as a writing. xDD Thank you!

Lori: I realize it's not the most original of plots, but I'm glad that you're enjoying the way things are playing out. I wanted to try and make a stronger Molly, and a more lovelorn Sherlock. Thank you for the compliments!

Eccentricpetal: Well, Sherlock's so observant that he would be able to figure out what colors look best on her, right? And trust me, Sherlock's jealousy will reach new levels next chapter!


	5. The Red Bull

Molly had only once felt such paralyzing fear. She had been hurrying through her labs, trying to locate a body that could pass as Sherlock, when suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck had prickled, sending an uncomfortable tingle down her spine. She had spun around, only to find Jim…no…Moriarty standing in the doorway, watching her.

She'd felt dread like none other in those few moments; she felt sick, she'd lost feeling in her fingers and toes. Sure, she'd been disturbed when she discovered that Jim from IT was really a psychopathic mass murderer, but it had been far from crippling fear. Then, however, as he stared at her silently from the doorway, she felt terror swell inside of her and choke the air from her throat, causing her eyes to water. He'd only smiled, which sent tendrils of pure horror to paralyze her to the spot, before disappearing. The encounter had left her feeling exhausted and confused, though she hadn't much time to dwell on it as Sherlock had needed her.

Now, however, she found herself in the same position. The inconspicuous black car sped silently through the streets of London. Every time she managed to gain her bearing; a familiar restaurant, a landmark, a street she knew, the car would veer wildly down a different street, scrambling her sense of direction once more. The bored woman, whose name she had learned was Anthea, sat beside her silently, completely oblivious to the panicking woman at her left, so engrossed was she with texting a person.

What would John do? What would Sherlock do? John would face the whole situation with bravery and gusto; perhaps even joking with the bored woman. Sherlock would have figured out who had kidnapped him by now, and would have already formulated a plan of escape. She had neither John's courage nor Sherlock's intelligence, and in comparison she felt weak and worthless. She was Molly Hooper; she was beige to Sherlock's electric blue and John's warm red. She was neutral; unimportant. The words stung her only because she realized them to be true. She was worthless, and now…

Well, she didn't know what to make of her situation. The fear said that Moriarty was back, and that his last visit to her was really some ominous warning instead of a final farewell. Her rational mind told her that he couldn't be alive; she'd seen him with his brain splattered all over the roof of St. Bart's. There was no possible way it was he who had kidnapped him.

Then who could the culprit be? She took a few, deep calming breaths. What would Sherlock do? She thought back to all the mysteries that he had presented her with, and for the first time, began to stretch her deduction muscle.

The car they were in was very expensive, judging by the leather interior, the overall cleanliness…but the seats were slightly worn, meaning that this was possibly a rental car. So, whoever had kidnapped her wanted her to be under the impression that they were important and had a lot of money to spare. Molly relaxed…it was like piecing together a puzzle, and as each piece snapped into place, she found herself calming down. Her eyes darted around the car once more.

The woman…she was dressed as a typical secretary would; conservatively with a small flare of style. She was obviously a professional woman…and judging by how her clothing clung to her, it was very unlikely she had a weapon on her. There were no bulges in her pockets, aside from where her skirt and blazer bunched up around her waist while she sat. Her phone was fancy and expensive, probably a planner, which further cemented in Molly's mind that this woman was a secretary and not some hired thug or assassin as she'd initially thought.

But if the secretary had such an expensive phone, than her boss must have had some money. Meaning that the rental car was all a ploy; or, her kidnapper didn't want the car to be traced back to him, so he rented a car out using an alias. So, her kidnapper was someone of wealth, someone with a busy schedule, and someone who, if the fact that the secretary was unarmed was anything to go by, didn't want to hurt her.

Molly felt like a deflated balloon as all of her previous panic left her.

The car pulled up beside a worn-down department store that had been closed for ages. Before Molly could get her bearings, Anthea had rushed her out of the car and into the building. The windows were bored up, casting a dusty gray light on the interior. Dummies missing various limbs stood awkwardly on the floor, posing for customers that would never come. Molly felt uneasy again, but calmed herself with a deep breath. What could she figure out about this meeting place?

She didn't have much time to come to anything as Anthea was soon ushering her up the broken-down escalator and onto the second floor. Old, smashed counters stood like ancient relics on this floor, and old advertisements hung peeling on wires suspended from the ceiling. Anthea directed her to the end of the room, where the person who wished to speak with her was waiting.

Mustering up all of her courage, Molly carefully picked her way through the broken glass and trash until she'd made her way past the single, flickering fluorescent light and to the back of the store. Anthea had disappeared at this point, hidden behind another set of escalators and various counters. Now unsupervised, the thought of running hit Molly; she was certain she could find a way out of this building…

"I know that face," a voice called, "don't even think about running. You won't get far."

"Who are you?"

"You've heard of me," the woman stepped out from behind some shelves, and Molly's eyes narrowed.

She was pale in a very pretty, elegant sort of way, with her shimmery black hair curled into an attractive hairstyle. Her lips were blood red, and her eyes glinted even in this dim light. Her fashion was impeccable…her figure, well, Molly could achieve that figure only in her dreams. She was dark…mysterious… 

"Irene Adler," the name slipped out of Molly's lips.

"So you've heard of me," she smiled coyly, and Molly felt distaste bubble up inside of her.

How could she not have heard of Irene Adler? "The Woman" as Sherlock called her. Every so often his phone would go off, a throaty moan echoing out of the speakers, and each time it made Molly unbelievably uncomfortable. Sherlock had told her minimally about Irene, only smiling mysteriously and returning the text. She'd gotten a lot more from John, who had showed her the blog post he'd made about "A Scandal in Belgravia" and some information as to what she'd look like.

"What do you want with me?" Molly asked. "And why the theatrics? If you'd just swung by St. "Bart's, I'd have spoken with you…kidnapping me wasn't necessary."

Irene rolled her eyes. "I'm a wanted woman; walking out in broad daylight would get me killed. Besides, we're safe here…without any prying eyes, so we can talk about a mutual friend of ours."

"Sherlock?" Molly raised an eyebrow, and Irene laughed.

"You're not as dumb as Sherlock made you out to be," Irene replied, and Molly felt herself blush with anger. "Yes, I wanted to talk to you about Sherlock."

"Alright, so, what do you have to say?" Molly crossed her arms over her chest. She did not like this woman; did not like her at all.

"He's been behaving oddly lately," Irene said, smoothing down the hem of her fur shawl. "Surely you've noticed it?"

"Sherlock is Sherlock; odd behavior is normal from him," Molly said.

"I retract my earlier statement about your intelligence," Irene said, causing Molly to inwardly seethe. "Surely you notice he's been obsessing over John."

"Well yeah," Molly grit her teeth. "He wants to reunite with John and… I'm his link to do it." It made her feel important, saying that Sherlock needed her for something. She didn't miss the glare that Irene shot her, and a look of triumph spread across her face.

"Be that as it may, I think that it is more than just wishing to reunite with John. I think…he's jealous," Irene looked terribly annoyed as she spoke. "Jealous of you and John…jealous of how John had stolen away your affections for him."

Molly's jaw dropped. "You're not serious," she shook her head. "Are you even listening to what you're saying? Sherlock is…well…he'd never be jealous of something like that. He doesn't even like me."

"I'm glad you know your place."

"Excuse me?"

"That's why I called this meeting," Irene smiled prettily, and Molly wanted to slap her. "To remind you that you are nothing to Sherlock."

Molly's head whirled with anger and confusion. This woman called her out here, made her miss work, all to tell her that she was nothing to Sherlock?

Oh.

Oh oh oh.

Molly smiled.

"You're jealous," she said, and Irene balked. "You're jealous of me."

"I am n—"

"You are!" Molly exclaimed. "You think that because I'm no longer fawning over Sherlock he'll suddenly become more interested in me than he is in you. Because he can't have me, he wants me all the more. Well, I'll tell you right now; that's complete rubbish."

"I am not jealous," Irene replied, though it was much subdued compared to her earlier vehemence.

"Sherlock doesn't care about any of that; if you knew him well enough, you'd know that," Molly replied. "I'm his friend, that's all. He's not going to suddenly stop…whatever he has with you…to pursue me."

"I'd hardly call you his friend," Irene snapped, "more like a…convenience."

Molly's lip twitched. "Be that as it may…"

"You're right, though; it was foolish of me to worry," Irene smiled. Again, the urge to slap her almost overcame Molly. "How could Sherlock ever switch his affections to someone like you?"

"If you call what he felt for you affection, than okay," Molly replied. "Can I go now? Unlike you, I have a job to get back to."

Irene bristled and scrunched up her nose. Without waiting for a reply, Molly turned and stalked back through the department store, down the escalator, and off down the street, completely forgetting Anthea and the black car waiting to ferry her back to St. Bart's.

The nerve of that woman! Molly took a few calming breaths, and when they failed, took to clenching her fists as she stormed down the sidewalk. Who did she think she was? She came under the pretense of caring about Sherlock, but really just wanted to assure that Molly wasn't competition. What was ridiculous; Sherlock wouldn't ever have those sorts of thoughts about her.

Which, for some reason, hurt. Even though Molly was very happy with John, the thought that Sherlock would never be interested in her hurt. Irene was right in that regard; she was barely his friend, a romantic relationship would never bloom between the two of them. She stopped walking, all of her energy leaving her in a single whoosh.

Even though she denied it, she still felt something for Sherlock. It was no longer a nervous crush that turned her into a bumbling, clumsy idiot around him, but rather a deep ache for something that would never be. It was like meeting a famous movie star and afterwards realizing that nothing would come of the encounter…although one could hope. Molly sighed, and was unaware as a taxi slowly pulled up beside her, and the window rolled down.

"Molly?"

Molly jumped.

"John?"

"What are you doing all the way out here?" John stepped out of the cab. "I was on my way to an appointment…are you alright?"

"I just…" she pointed helplessly down the street. "Well…I was picked up outside of St. Bart's by this woman called Anthea and…"

"Ooh, ooh," John grinned. "Mycroft, huh?"

"Uhm…sure," for whatever reason, Molly was reluctant to tell John about her meeting with Irene Adler.

"Strange; he normally gives rides back," John shrugged. "Care to share my cab? We were heading in St. Bart's direction anyway."

"Sure…thank you."

The ride back to St. Bart's was oddly quiet, as Molly was caught up in her own thoughts. John didn't bother her, for which she was grateful, and soon the cab pulled up to St. Bart's. She gave John a light kiss on the lips before bidding him farewell and exiting the cab. Suddenly the prospect of returning to work seemed unappealing.

Elsewhere

Anthea slipped back into Mycroft's office at the Diogenes' Club, wondering if her boss had even missed her presence. The eldest Holmes brother, however, was waiting for her, and she had the courtesy to dip her head with embarrassment as she slowly approached his desk.

Mycroft sniffed.

"Perfume," he said simply, "Clive Christian…you've been seeing Irene Adler again."

"Yes, sir," Anthea held her head high and defiantly, as if daring him to comment on it.

"You really should stop associating with that woman," Mycroft said, "That path will only lead you to destruction."

Anthea said nothing. Mycroft observed her for a moment before sighing.

"She's got you hooked," he said.

"I love her," Anthea replied.

"You think you love her," Mycroft answered and shook his head. "Be careful, Anthea; I would hate to have to hire a new secretary."


End file.
